


A Helping Hand

by PigeonTracks



Category: Everyman HYBRID, MLAndersen0, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Dismemberment, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PigeonTracks/pseuds/PigeonTracks
Summary: Michael looks for help in the wrong place and falls into Habit's grasp.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are always appreciated! <3

Michael's legs shake as he exits his car, walking towards the empty building. Every cell in his body seems to scream at him to leave, but he continues to walk towards the door. He's driven by answers, answers he's desperately been searching for. He had gotten a message a few days ago from an anonymous source, promising information. He hadn't trusted them at first, but they seemed to know a bit too much, more than they were letting on. And so Michael was deciding to take a chance. He pats his pocket, feeling the switchblade hidden inside. 'Just in case-' he tells himself, trying to brush away the worry.

He walks up to the abandoned house's front door, and a slip of white paper catches his eye. He pulls it off the door and reads it.

MY APOLOGIES FOR THE ODD CONDITIONS OF OUR MEETING, BUT YOU KNOW OF THE MONSTERS THAT HUNT US, AND THE PRECAUTIONS WE MUST TAKE. I'LL MEET YOU INSIDE :)  
-REGARDS.

The note both reassures and worries Michael. Swallowing his fear and desire to turn back, he presses forward and opens the door, paint chipping off the knob into his hand. He wipes off the dirt on his pants while the door creaks open.

Stepping inside, he observes his surroundings. Dark, and damp, the rotting building smells of mold and rat piss. He grimaces and ventures further in

“Hello?” He calls out. His words echo back to him. 

Michael walks through the building, peeking around corners, and calling out occasionally. His fear begins to get the better of him, but he pushes it down, He's doing this for Shaun. He has to get answers.

Eventually, he finds a closed door. 'This last room, then I leave-' He tells himself, opening the room.

It's small and windowless. A rat skitters out of the way as light enters the room, and Michael flinches.

The room gives him bad vibes. It's completely empty, save for an old wooden chair. He turns to leave, but something catches his eye- a small, glossy object on the floor. Leaning down, he picks up the item, looking it over in the dim light.

It squishes slightly in his grip, cold and slimy to the touch. It smells. Suddenly, it dawns on him. 

It's a fucking human liver. 

Michael tosses the organ away, eyes widening as he scrambles backward… Right into someone's legs. Looking up at the figure, a heavy object connects with his head, and Michael hits the floor. He watches as shoes walk in front of him before all fades to black. He feels a pricking at the back of his mind, like someone knocking, asking to help.

He lets them in.  
\---

Michael wakes up, now sitting in a chair. A sticky mixture of blood and saliva trickle out the side of his mouth, and he spits some onto the floor. Movement from the side of the room catches his eye, and he looks up as a short man steps out from the shadows, chuckling to himself.

“Well, well, well. Hello, PATRICK.” The man says with a smirk.

Patrick shoots a glare at the man. He knows him all too well. 

“I would say it's a pleasure to meet again, Habit, but it's really not.”

Habit frowns. “Rude, Patrick, always so rude.”

Pat shrugs. “Just call it a quirk of my personality.”

He spits more blood on the floor, hitting Habit's shoe with a splat. Within a few seconds of watching the blood hit the shoe, Patrick finds himself slapped across the face, and he gasps in shock, blinking.

Habit's laughter rings in his ears, and he hears the clunk of his boots on the floor as he paces back and forth.

“So- little Michael came here for answers. Idiot. Why didn't you stop him, huh?” Habit stops, and grips the arms of the chair, leaning towards Patrick's face. Patrick cringes away.

“I have to let Michael live, I can't control his every damn move-” Patrick hisses, looking down at the floor.

“Then it's gonna be your loss.” Habit sneers. “I have some questions of my own… Such as if you will Outlast the time it took me to break Shaun.”

Patrick's eyes widen. “Fuck you-” 

Habit ignores the insult and reaches into his pocket. Pat watches as he pulls out a small box. Toothpicks.

Patrick smirks. “What the hell do you plan to do with those, stake me through the heart? Clean my teeth?” He jokes, almost holding back laughter. Tiny wooden sticks. So threatening. 

Grinning, Habit bares his teeth like some animal. He stays silent as he kneels neck to the chair, and holds down Patrick's hand. Slowly opening the box, he draws out a toothpick and sets it at the tip of Patrick's finger.

Quickly, Habit jabs the toothpick- right under Patrick's nail, driving it in deep, nearly to the root.

Patrick yelps, kicking his foot back against the chair and tensing his hand. The chair scoots back a bit, but Habit continues to grip his wrist, clenching so tightly it was sure to leave a bruise. The next toothpick he places under the nail of the middle finger and slowly pushes it in, the thin sliver of wood visible under the hard, clear layer of the nail.

Patrick turns his head away, biting back a yell, refusing to give Habit any extra satisfaction hearing his pain. It's already enough his hands were trembling-

He silently apologizes to Michael, and the sick surprise he would discover waking up. Perhaps he could still health's body.

Another flash of pain jolts Pat back to reality, and he jumps in surprise, banging his shin on the chair leg.

Habit snickers again. “Jumpy, are we? Your own clumsiness doing my job for me?” He mocks, pressing in the next toothpick. Ring finger this time.

Patrick finds himself unable to hold back a scream this time, raising in pitch as Habit pulls the sliver back out, uncomfortably slow. Blood dribbles out of the small hole, pooling around the edges of his nail.

As Habit repeats the process for the remaining fingers, Patrick practically goes numb to the pain, mentally blocking it out, along with Habit's occasional insults and jeers.

Habit stands up. “No fucking reaction, Huh? At least Shaun had the decency to scream or swear when prompted.” He frowns. “No fun, just like I suspected, prick.”

He walks over to the corner of the room, probably to grab something.

Patrick takes the opportunity to look around while his back is turned, trying to form an idea. He shifts in his seat a little and feels a metal object in his pocket. Micheal's knife. 

A bit of hope flashes through him, and he quickly begins to shift, trying to work the knife out of his pocket without the use of his tied down, bloody hands.

He isn't completely sure what he'll do, how he'll cut himself loose without actually grabbing the knife, but he'll figure out something on the fly like he always does. The knife begins to slip from his pocket.

Habit turns around suddenly, surprising Patrick, making him flinch. The knife clatters to the floor, the metal glinting in the dim light. Habit's eyes snap to it, and he walks over, picking it up.

“Clever boy…” He mutters, pocketing the blade. He draws out a much larger knife from behind his back, with ragged teeth, red with rust.

“Let's get a reaction out of you, shall we?” He says slowly, balancing the blade on Patrick's trembling wrist.

Before Patrick can open his mouth, Habit starts to saw, drawing the blade back and forth, tearing the skin. Patrick finally screams in agony, the reaction Habit wanted. 

Blood pours out of the gash as veins are cut, and flesh gets torn. The blade isn't the sharpest, and Habit has to push down on the blade as he starts to cut through the bone, the knife sawing against the harder substance.

Patrick continues to scream until his voice cracks. He feels like he's about to pass out, and refuses to look over at Habit as he slowly severed his hand, for fear of vomiting. Eventually, the sounds of the blade stop.

Habit rips the last few hanging tendrils of flesh attaching the hand and dangles the severed limb I front of Patrick's face. He laughs at the look of shock, mixed with disgust, and horror.

He drops the limb in Patrick's lap, along with his switchblade.

“Hopefully you can get out of here without a helping hand-"

HAbit laughs at his own joke, and opening the door, leaves, slamming it behind him. His footsteps disappear, and Patrick is left alone in the dark.

He'll get himself and Michael out- he always comes up with a solution.

He always figures something out, he tells himself over and over.


End file.
